A Descent into Hell
by Saja Natalia
Summary: It is 1940, and France has just been taken by Germany. However, the one to deal the blows to France isn't the German, but instead France's dear friend. M for intense violence.


AN: This fanfic is written from the perspective of France. So see Prussia's perspective, check out Imalkikal's companion fanfic at http:/ www. fan fiction. net/s/ 6464957/1/ All_in_a_Days_Work . Also, translations of the German used in this story can be found at the bottom.

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A wheezing noise, the crack of bone meeting floor, and the great nation of France fell forward onto his hands and knees. A cough escaped his parted lips, despite his desperate attempts to keep the pathetic sign of weakness withheld. He knew his current appearance did little for his reputation, yet the fact that such a feeble sound had made its way past his defenses in front of the present company still stung harder than the boot that had sent him sprawling. It was disgraceful, undignified. It was pitiful.

The attack came again, and France braced himself. No matter how much he prepared, however, the pain rushed over him like a tidal wave. He found himself biting his lip to stop from crying out. Such brutality – he had almost forgotten Germany was capable of it. It was astounding, really, coming from a country France had personally humiliated and destroyed. That the German had been able to rebuild himself so quickly inspired both terror and awe in the prone Frenchman.

France's brain registered a familiar sound, and his eyes widened. Within a split second, a searing pain was raging across his upper arm. It was too much. A small cry escaped the blonde's lips as he fell to the side, aided by yet another kick. As he lay, heaving, he managed to glance up at the man towering above him.

"Wirklich? Ist das alles?" The voice was cold and sarcastic, unlike anything France had encountered in quite a while. The light reflected off of the barrel of Germany's gun, striking Francis in the eyes. The Frenchman winced, both from the glare as well as from the sound of the foreign language. At what point had Germany begun speaking only his native tongue? France had little time to ponder this, as another bullet instantly whizzed through the air, embedding itself in his shoulder. Blood bubbled from the wound just as the toe of Germany's shined boots contacted with the very same spot.

A curse burst from France's lips, and he immediately gritted his teeth against the pain. The wounds that had existed since earlier that day throbbed until his whole body seemed to cry out in unison, complaining loudly about each injury.

_Where are the Allies now?_ The thought arose in his mind - a mind clouded, or perhaps sharpened, by the affect of the attacks. Not a single country rushed to his side, not his life-long acquaintance England, nor even the overly large Russia, whom he himself had helped to save from near extinction. Even Spain, France's dear friend, had turned his back on the desperate country. _Where_, he thought, _where is my knight in shining armor?_

A more prideful country than France, a more boastful man than Francis would have welcomed such a challenge. Taking on one's enemy man-to-man was quite simply a competition of who could best the other with brute force. Despite being the country of romance, the Frenchman rarely romanticized his thoughts concerning those who antagonized him. He knew all too well that he was no match for Germany. As if to punctuate such a thought, the hard metal toe of the German's boot collided once more with France, striking him this time with a direct blow to the head. Stars instantly erupted in the lesser country's vision, and he instinctively curled into a protective ball. Frantic thoughts ripped through his consciousness, searching desperately for someone he could still count on to save him. Old alliances were dragged from the reaches of his mind, old treaties he had signed, and old deals he had made, yet no matter how hard he attempted to recall, France found himself left without a single hero. Everyone he could have counted on had either abandoned him to the hands of Germany or had perished long before.

Over the labored sounds of his own breathing, Francis suddenly heard the approach of a second pair of boots. With this sound came confusion, followed by grave comprehension, and finally a cruel mixture of fear and relief. The cautious emotion, however, soon proved to be the correct reaction, as a sudden weight marked the placement of a gloved hand upon the Frenchman's head. With a twist, the fingers intertwined themselves in France's golden hair, and with one more wrenching movement, the pathetic country was pulled to his knees, his scalp crying all the way. France's hand shot up to attempt to free himself, his eyes closing from pain, yet he soon found his escape plan unsuccessful. Left with few alternatives, he opened his eyes to face his tormentor.

The eyes that met his were not, however, blue, as Francis had expected. Rather, a pair of crazed red eyes met his gaze. The albino squatted before him, his face a mask of sadistic delight and boyish curiosity. "Oi! Bruder!" he called, never releasing his grip or his hungry stare. "Was haben wir hier?"

"Müll," was Germany's only response. He stood behind his older brother, eyeing Francis with a look of complete hatred. "Du kannst ihn wegtragen. Wir brauchen ihn nicht." France needed not understand the words to comprehend their intent; Germany wanted him disposed of, and he had brought in his big brother to do the job. A look of realization crept over Prussia's face, and Francis attempted not to panic, attempted with all his might not to recall what fate had befallen the albino's opposition in wars past.

"Wirklich? Ein Geschank?" The look Königreich Preußen directed at him now bore no resemblance to anything remotely human. The final words rolled fluidly across his agile tongue as the albino sealed France's fate, sending a chill down the Frenchman's spine.

"Danke, Bruder."

With these last two words came two events. Immediately, Germany stepped from the room, and just as quickly, France was thrown back onto the ground. The Prussian circled him, resembling a cat about to pounce. "Wie geht's, Frankreich?" he spat, a smile perpetually gleaming on his features. "Bist du wohl?" He crouched now, his face inches from his victim's. A hand toyed with the blond curls of the lesser nation. "Deutschland sagt, dass du bist mein. Möchtest du mit mich spielen? Ich weiß viele Spielen."

France dared not respond. The foreign words washed over him, their meaning unclear. If he responded, there was a large chance it would lead to a misunderstanding and more pain. Yet, the fact that the bloodied country remained silent seemed only to aggravate Prussia.

"Was? Werdest du nicht sprechen?" His eyes narrowed, and he released the Frenchman's hair. "Das ist unglaublich!" The cry was followed quickly with a kick aimed directly at France's abdomen. The unprepared man took the blow full on and was soon bent double, holding his ribcage. "Ich habe, dass wir sind Freunde geglaubt!" Three more kicks, and the blonde skidded across the floor, a trail of blood in his wake. France coughed, spewing blood from his mouth; one of the attacks must have done damage to his internal organs. Yet, Prussia seemed unfazed by the amount of gore now dripped from his opponent.

"Schrei!" Francis made a desperate attempt to crawl away, his hand scraping across the ground as he tried to drag his body, but soon Prussia was upon him. Wrenching the Frenchman's arm above his head, the albino pulled it over his shoulder and threw the poor man attached in a tremendous display of strength. France hit the wall with his back, accompanied by a guttural noise and a large crack. As he fell, he thankfully lost consciousness, only to regain it as the Prussian reached him, a gun in his extended hand.

"Warum schreist du nicht?" A shot rang out, and France grabbed his thigh in a futile attempt to ease the pain. Disgusted, the albino tore his arms away from the wound. Plunging his gloved fingers inside, the crazed attacker tore outward, rending flesh from bone. A shriek filled the room, yet France knew not that it came from his mouth. Desperately, he attempted to claw at Prussia's throat, at his arm, at his _anything_. The seasoned fighter, however, merely stomped on his victim's hand with his heel, crushing the bones. "Fass mich nicht an!"

Francis whimpered as he cradled his hand, his breathing ragged. His left arm, the one Prussia had used to throw him, seemed to sag from its proper place and his right hand bore no structure. His back throbbed heartily. Blood gushed from the wound on his leg as France struggled to remain conscious. "Pr-Pru…" his attempt to beg for mercy failed miserably. The beginning of his name, however, had caught Prussia's attention and soon he had France once more by the hair.

"Sag meinen Name nicht. Du bist nicht gut genug!" The albino spat in his eye, his face contorted with rage. Yanking upward, he drove his knee into the blonde's groin, sparing no force. Vomit stained with blood spewed forth from France's mouth as he groaned. His reaction clearly enraged the Prussian, as he threw Francis quickly to the ground. The instant he landed, his attacker was on him once more, kicking him mercilessly.

"Warum-" Kick. "bist-" Kick. "du-" Kick. "sehr-" Kick. "schwach?" Kick. Punch. Grab.

The dazed Frenchman was lifted by his dislocated arm, his vision hazy. Something gleamed in Prussia's hand. No, it wasn't a gun this time. France struggled to make out what it was. Too late, however, he realized that the object had been a knife. A splitting scream tore from his throat as Prussia drew the blade down the length of his torso.

The blood sprayed. A hand. A hand entered the cut. Grab, scratch, crack, pull. Shriek. Fuzz. Haze.

Smile. Grin. Laugh.

Darkness.

When France awoke, he instantly wished he was dead. Had he been anything other than a country, he quite certainly would have been. Instead, his immortal curse had prevented his body from shutting down, despite the blood that remained caked to his shredded clothing.

He need not open his eyes to realize he was exactly where he had been. Nor did he need to see to know exactly how injured he was. Despite his accelerated rate of healing, he could still feel precisely every centimeter of his damaged body. A cough wracked his frame, and Francis gasped at the pain coming from near his lungs. Another cough, and his eyes were spread wide open.

Francis didn't notice fresh blood that now soaked his broken hand. He didn't notice the bloody boot prints that marked Prussia's exit. Didn't notice the swelling of his eye or the clumps of hair that lay about.

France's vision, rather, narrowed in on a small, jagged something protruding from one of the piles of blood. It didn't take him very long to realize what it was.

The crack. The laughter. With a weary hand, France grasped the bone and dragged it slowly towards him. Lifting it, he aligned it with its proper place, only to drop it quickly. The rib rolled down his side and into the newly-forming pool beside Francis. A cough, and blackness once more.

And so, France began his time in a living Hell.

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AN: To those of you who don't speak German, I've decided to translate the dialogue from this fanfic. It seemed necessary that Germany and Prussia speak their native tongue due to the nationalism that was taking place at the time. I apologize if this makes the story hard to read. Anyway, the translations are as follows: (Note: whenever Prussia speaks to France, he uses the informal version of "you" marking France as either his equal or someone of lesser value.)

Germany: (to France) Really? Is that all?

Prussia: Hey, brother! What do we have here?

Germany: Trash. You can take it out. We don't need it.

Prussia: Really? A gift? Thank you, brother.

Prussia: How are you, France? Are you well? Germany says that you're mine. Would you like to play with me? I know many games.

Prussia: What? Are you not going to speak? That's unbelievable! (kick) I thought that we were friends! (kick, kick, kick) Scream! (throws him) Why don't you scream? (tears his flesh and stomps on him) Don't touch me!

Prussia: (picks him up) Don't say my name! You aren't good enough!

Prussia: Why (kick) are (kick) you (kick) so (kick) weak?


End file.
